


Breaking

by madsthenerdygirl



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-28
Updated: 2016-03-28
Packaged: 2018-05-29 14:00:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6378865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madsthenerdygirl/pseuds/madsthenerdygirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's all falling to pieces, just when things were starting to come together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Breaking

**Author's Note:**

> This story was originally posted on fanfiction.net in 2013 and is now being crossposted here with the rest of my work. I wrote it when I started wondering how the season two finale would go if Sherlock and John were already in a relationship.

It's official. His brain has shut down. Completely and utterly shut down.

Not that you can blame him. Sherlock's making those low, rough noises in the back of his throat again, and he's arching his back deliciously. John keeps tonguing at that gorgeous swan neck, biting down on the tendons the way he knows the detective loves. And Sherlock does  _love_.

Took John a bloody long time to see it, but he's pretty sure Sherlock has deeper emotions than anyone else on the planet.

He's not really dwelling on that at the moment, though, not when he's got the consulting detective right where he wants him. He runs his hands up and down Sherlock's sides, feeling the goosebumps that erupt in the wake of his fingers. Sherlock clenches around him and John feels himself go cross-eyed. The bastard knows exactly what he's doing, damn it, and the telltale smirk that flits across the detective's face is only confirmation. John responds by thrusting harder, gripping Sherlock's hips tightly (he's going to leave bruises but Sherlock doesn't care… he'll probably analyze them later for some experiment or another…) and pushing a keening sound out of Sherlock's throat.

That's all it takes when he's already so close to tumbling over, and he lets go completely. Everything is too sharp and muffled all at the same time, impressions pushing through the fog in painful contrast to the washed-out pleasure that is the rest of the world. He's vaguely aware that he's lost his load and Sherlock has also reached climax, but other than snatches of skin and hands and sweaty dark curls almost everything is a cloud of euphoric fog.

Sherlock waits until he's come to before leaving to hop into the shower. He's managed to explain to the bloody git that it's proper to spend a few minutes with your lover after sex and not just go hopping out of bed to check on your rotting fingernails or examine a cornea under a microscope. They've made a bit of progress--Sherlock lets John hold him for a moment before scooting off to steal all the hot water. Someday they're going to have a talk about that, too, but at the moment John's a bit too wrung-out to get up the energy.

He lies in bed until Sherlock's finished, then cleans up the mess (of course  _he's_  the one to always change the sheets) and takes his turn in the shower. The water does indeed go cold halfway through but it's probably for the best, and as the water was almost always cold in the war it's something he's used to.

When he gets downstairs in his bathrobe, Sherlock's already dressed and looking his usual impeccable self. He's looking at… what  _is_  that thing under the microscope? A dissected spider?

Before he can ask, Sherlock's phone goes off. It's a text and not a call, so probably not Lestrade. John puts the kettle on, neatly avoiding the large bowl of ammonia on the counter.

"Sherlock, your phone," he says, because when Sherlock's at the microscope the rest of the world pretty much vanishes for him.

Sherlock makes a noncommittal noise, and John knows he's going to ignore it. It's probably Mycroft, anyhow, seeing as only four people in the world have Sherlock's phone number, and one of those people is dead as of six months ago (John still gets jealous about Her). Another one of the four is John himself, and the third is Lestrade who, again, never texts.

It must be Mycroft.

When the phone gives off a little ding again, John decides he needs to take a look. He doesn't much care what Mycroft wants but he'll keep bugging them until he gets it, so it's best just to get it all over with. He checks the phone and…

"Sherlock."

"Not now."

John swallows. He knows it's not medically possible but it definitely feels like his stomach has somehow managed to leave his body. "Sherlock," he repeats.

"Not. Now." Obviously the dissected spider is beyond fascinating.

John goes for the direct approach and thrusts the phone into Sherlock's face. It's really the only way to get his attention at this point. "You'll want to read this."

Sherlock gives John his best petulant look. Honestly. John Watson is dating a five-year-old.

"It's from him," John adds.

There's no need to inquire further. Sherlock snatches the phone from John's hand and reads over the text.

Most people wouldn't be able to see any emotion in Sherlock's face, but John can tell that he's apprehensive. The last time they faced Moriarty, they both nearly died. (Probably why Sherlock let his guard down and snogged the life out of him, but it's been good since so why complain?)

He doesn't want to show it, but Sherlock's worried.

And that makes John very, very nervous.

* * *

Mycroft doesn't  _know_  they're in a romantic (and sexual) relationship. That is, he doesn't have any evidence. But he's convinced about it, and whether he's right or wrong (and he is right, bugger it) doesn't matter in the face of his certainty. So of course, when it comes to Sherlock, Mycroft has taken to deferring to John.

"He actually listens to you on occasion. I'm not sure if you realize what a miracle this is, Dr. Watson, but believe me nobody's gotten this far with him since Mother."

John isn't sure how he feels being compared to the woman who birthed Mycroft and Sherlock, but takes it as the compliment it was obviously meant as.

When he's summoned to see Mycroft (and of all the places he's met the elder Holmes brother, this club is definitely the weirdest), he assumes it's about something Sherlock's done, something John now has to fix.

It's always about protecting others from Sherlock, so it never occurs to him that it might be about protecting Sherlock himself.

He plays it off to Mycroft, trying not to sound as upset as he feels. Moriarty is back and now he's got assassins all around them, just waiting to strike. It makes an angry, burning bile rise in his throat. If any one of them tries to harm Sherlock they're going to find out what Captain John Watson is like on his bad days…

His silent declarations strengthen his resolve, but they don't help his fear.

* * *

It's the stress.

That's why he does it.

It has to be.

When he runs out of the cab, seeing how close Sherlock was to death… how that man was shot…

Well, what was he supposed to do? Stay calm about it?

He grabs Sherlock by the lapels of his infuriatingly large coat and yanks the detective down, smashing their mouths together and kissing the life out of him, licking his way into the taller man's mouth and stealing the breath that (thank God) he exhales. Sherlock is surprised, as John is all about privacy (not from shame but it's his bedroom, all right?) so such a display of public affection is unusual, to say the least.

He reads the confusion in Sherlock's eyes as he pulls away, sees the understanding creep in, and then watches the cold, hard facts slide into places like blocks in a game of Tetris.

"He saved me," Sherlock says slowly. "He saved me but he couldn't touch me. Why?"

John doesn't really much care  _why_ , so long as it doesn't happen again. He's determined to keep Sherlock in his sights from now on. That bastard isn't allowed to go anywhere unless John's with him.

And if it makes Sherlock extremely annoyed, then so be it.

* * *

Sherlock is breaking. Most people couldn't see it, wouldn't even think of it in the first place, but John can tell. There are little cracks appearing in his composure, tiny fissures in his usually implacable demeanor. John knows it's serious when they're in bed at night and Sherlock holds him. Sherlock  _never_  holds him. They fall asleep on opposite sides of the bed and wake up in whatever position sleep has put them in, and it's comfortable but it's far from cuddling.

So when Sherlock slips his thin arms around John, anchoring the doctor to him and preventing him from moving much, John knows that Sherlock is breaking. He remembers the last time they faced Moriarty, and how the madman threatened Sherlock. The words chase each other around in his head, taunting him, and he worries because Sherlock is worried, because Sherlock is slipping, and Sherlock is scared.

_I'm going to burn your heart out…_

_I'm going to burn your heart out…_

_Burn your heart out…_

_Burn your heart…_

_Burn your heart…_

_Burn… Burn… Burn…_

* * *

After Sherlock's near-arrest and the handcuffs (the first time they've ever held hands, incidentally), John tries to relieve his partner's fears by talking about them.

He should have known this would be a bad idea.

"He's not going to win," he says quietly. "You know he can't get to you. He can't destroy you because you don't care what anyone else thinks of you."

Sherlock looks at him, that look that John knows well. It says  _you don't get it, do you?_

"John," Sherlock responds slowly, and it really should be illegal for him to have that smooth baritone voice, curling around the letters of John's name like it belongs to a deity, "He will get to you."

"How?" John replies. "I'm always with you."

Sherlock gives him another look that says John is utterly hopeless. "The only way to stop this is to stop him. I'll figure it out." He goes back to his work.

"No, Sherlock, you–"

"John." It's a warning this time. "I have to stop him."

"Why? So that you can say that you're the best? So that you can have your precious ego stoked?"

"So that I don't lose you!" Sherlock shouts. Sherlock doesn't truly shout often, but when he does it's a sight to behold. It's quite close to terrifying.

"Burn my heart out, John! What did you think he meant, that he was literally going to set me on fire?" Sherlock demands. "He knew, all the way back at the beginning, that I cared for you, and if I don't stop him he's going to take away the one…" The detective stops, takes a deep breath, and starts over. "You're the one person who's ever…" He shakes his head and starts again. "John. All of this… the public ruination, the condemnation… it's not the final piece. He's taken away my reputation and my freedom, and now he's going to go after you. You're all I have left, John. All I ever cared about having. And if I don't stop him… you're next."

Sherlock is trembling. John has never seen the detective cry, but whenever Sherlock gets upset his body starts to tremble and he pushes his lips together to escape any noises coming out, his skin pale and his eyes stark. It's the closest he ever lets himself get to losing control.

John crosses over to him, holding him, wishing (not for the first time) that he were taller. He could enfold Sherlock in his arms that way, swallow him up and block out the rest of the world. He wishes he could make it just the two of them.

But he quickly learned in the war that there's no use wishing for what can't be. So he holds Sherlock and hopes it will be enough to keep him together, keep him from breaking to pieces.

* * *

He's regretting yelling at Sherlock before he's even halfway to Baker Street. He should know-- _does_ know--better than anyone that Sherlock is the opposite of a machine.

If only he could remember to tell the git that instead of losing his temper at him, things might actually work out.

The unfairness of it all strikes him, and he slumps against the window of the cab. Things were just coming together. Sherlock was getting cases that were somewhat stimulating, they'd been managing to avoid the press for the most part, and while bickering had never ceased they hadn't had a bad row since Baskerville. John had, for the first time in years, started to feel optimistic about the future.

And now it was all falling to pieces. It was enough to make a man short of temper, but he knew it was no excuse. He'd have to apologize to Sherlock when he got back from checking on Mrs. Hudson.

Speaking of Mrs. Hudson… he was at 221 now.

* * *

The idiot.

The bloody idiot.

The bloody  _fucking stupid_  idiot.

Sherlock's trying to get him out of the way, to protect him from something, and John is having none of it. How did he even manage a fake emergency call?

It's his own fault, really. He underestimated Sherlock's possessiveness. The man has never been good with sharing, and the idea of losing John had obviously shaken him. John drums his fingers against his knee impatiently. Can't the cabbie go any faster?

He sees St. Bart's and yells for the man to stop. He barrels out and starts walking over to the hospital. The minute he gets in he's giving Sherlock a piece of his mind the detective won't be able to dislodge from his mind palace no matter how hard he tries.

And then his phone rings.

And everything that's been falling apart, falling slowly, cracking and crumbling, speeds up and crashes to the ground and breaks into a million pieces that he'll never be able to put back together.

* * *

_This is the part where he'd kiss me._

The thought rises to the surface, unbidden, in his mind as he walks away from the grave. Sherlock always knew when he'd pushed too far, when he'd genuinely upset John, and after becoming lovers his favorite method of apologizing was to kiss the doctor until his knees gave out. Sometimes, if they were in the flat, this led to other, more strenuous activities.

John closes his eyes and imagines, for a moment, that he can feel those lips against his, the phantom touch as soft as the actual thing, only colder. Sherlock was always warm, almost feverish, burning from the inside out with a fire, a drive to conquer and deduce and solve.

Today, he thinks. Today he'll clean up the science equipment and donate it to St. Bart's like he promised Mrs. Hudson, and he'll clean the house and donate Sherlock's clothes (except for that purple shirt) and he'll organize the books. But of course he knows that in reality he'll just go home, watch crap telly for a couple of hours, masturbate in their bed on the sheets he still can't bear to change, and fall asleep with his clothes still half-on.

Because when Sherlock broke, John broke too. It's slower, but just as painful, and it leads down the same path. He's cracking like a windowpane, spider web fractures spreading out bit by bit, until one day he'll shatter completely and there will be nothing left of him but a gaping hole.

* * *

He never tells Sherlock about the gun.

He never says anything about his appointment with his lawyer.

He never mentions that the day after Sherlock returned was the anniversary of the day he died.

But he's certain that Sherlock knows this, and more--that he knows why John was cataloguing everything in the house or why he was penning a letter to Harry and Mrs. Hudson.

Personally John doesn't think it matters now, not now that Sherlock's back. But it must matter to Sherlock because he watches John like a hawk and confiscates the gun and only lets John shave under Sherlock's watchful eye.

They've both been breaking. Now it's time to put each other back together.


End file.
